


your hands are these

by purplemechanics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arya-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Discussion of rape/non-con, F/M, Forbidden Love, I think?, Implied Sexual Content, Misogyny, abuse tw, but we don't condone it, friends to acquaintances to situational necessities to friends to lovers, just be warned, multichap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22126975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplemechanics/pseuds/purplemechanics
Summary: The famine in the North will not end, not so long as winter lasts. That is why they betroth her to the King, that is why they sell her to the Crownlands, so they say. That is why she weds Joffrey. That is why she sits still and silent. That is why she waits. Waits for spring, waits for freedom, waits to be a different kind of hero than she always thought she'd be. The King’s illegitimate brother waits by her side.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 18
Kudos: 46





	your hands are these

**Author's Note:**

> so i wasn't going to post this until i'd written a waaaay larger portion of it but i'm kind of making myself do it now so i don't use not having it up as an excuse to not work on it lol. imma go back and maybe edit later but i need to put this somewhere. title is from run river north's "winter wind."

_cold hands covering my eyes_

__

__

_your hands are these, your hands_

— —

She’s packing a satchel to run away. She’s slung some of Jon’s old breeches over her hips and they’re too tight at the top and too long at the bottom but she rolls the ends and prays for the best. She throws her hair all into a furious mound at the top of her head and does her best to cover it with a cap. She spreads some soot from the hearth over her nose and forehead, tries not to be herself, tries to be no one.

She turns to grab the apples she’d stolen from the kitchens and freezes, remembering a time when she had stolen a heel of bread and her father was still alive to scold her and then give it back to her when no one was looking. She shakes her head to clear it, grabs the apples and chucks them into her sack. He would understand why she had to do this. He would be on her side.

Her fury stretches in her chest at the thought, a true and living creature that’s been eating her alive from the inside out since the day she lost him. She wouldn’t have to run away at all if he was still alive. If he was still alive, King Robert would still be alive, too, and then Joffrey wouldn’t be king. The North wouldn’t need a bargaining chip to keep its people from starving in the famine. There would be no famine at all.

The sharp edges of her winter frame ache for a time when they knew no hunger, knew no pain. She feels selfish with her apples in her bag. She starves a highborn’s starvation while the people of Wintertown die a real death. The North keeps withering, and without provisions from the South, it will melt away along with the snow drifts come spring.

And of course, the South demands something in return for its services.

Her.

She throws the bag over her shoulder and makes for the back entryway to her chambers, running her hand along the ragged stone of the hidden passageway like she was never supposed to know how. With every step further from the fireplace and her bed and the promise of at least a meager meal at suppertime, her skin grows colder. She makes her way through the frigid outskirts of the Winterfell keep, straining her eyes to see, ducking through hallways and battlements to avoid patrolmen. The sun will not rise for several hours and they will not know she is gone until several hours after; of that she can be certain. Resources are too few and far between these days for eyes to be on her for every second. What’s one unruly girl when six more will be begging for a bushel of wheat in the throne room by dawn? 

She tiptoes past what used to be her father’s chambers and feels pinpricks at her heart again. She finds herself wishing for a selfish father, one who wouldn’t have given his own life to try and save a friend. Especially when it didn’t matter in the end. 

When Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell had made the journey south to serve as Hand of the King, she had been nine years old. He had brought a small retinue, but Catelyn had begged for her youngest children to stay by her side in the North. Despite Catelyn’s efforts to keep them all together, they were scattered to the wind as the years passed. Sansa was betrothed to Lord Willas Tyrell of High Garden three years after Lord Stark departed. Arya heard she made a lovely liege Lady. Jon had headed North and took the Black even before that. Bran to Old Town, to study with the maesters. Rickon was fostering in the Eyrie, no doubt following cousin Robin around every place he went. Even Theon had returned home to his Iron Islands.

Only Robb and Arya remained in the North, and when Eddard had accompanied King Robert out on a hunting trip that ended in catastrophe, Robb had taken up the mantel of Lord of Winterfell. Her lady mother had never said the words out loud, but Arya _knew_ Catelyn didn’t believe that Ned had been killed by a wild boar. There was something about the manner of the deaths, the two most important men in Westeros felled so easily at the same time, that had every Northman and woman furrowing their brows, trying to put together the puzzle, trying to sniff out the truth, but by the time he died the famine had begun. There was no way to investigate further with leagues of crops wilted and hoards of citizens in need. Nothing to be done then, and even less now.

She makes it to the courtyard gate and sees two patrolmen, both steadfast at their post beside the open entryway. She shivers from the cold and the cold only, she is not afraid, and reaches a trembling hand to the ground. She grasps a smooth, icy stone and holds her breath when she chucks it just beyond the gate. It clatters over the hard dead ground and the patrolmen take notice, narrowing their eyes and exchanging a look with one another. They nod, and one leaves to investigate the sound. One stays. One she can handle. 

She grabs another rock, more jagged, and creeps forward on the balls of her feet. The man has his back to her and his eyes facing out into the vast white nothingness that is their home. She feels a twinge of guilt for the man who shares her homeland before bringing the rock down as hard as she can on the back of his head.

“Fuck!” His hands fly up in a jerky motion as he whips around. Arya panics. She thought he’d be rendered unconscious, at least. Instead he bleeds, his eyes wide as he has a split second to appraise his attacker. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears; her plan has faltered, and she has to improvise fast.

The rock still in her hand, she flies at him again, arm poised fiercely over her head. He catches the arm before she can make contact and grips tight, pushing back against her. His gaze is unfocused, likely due to the strength of her blow, but his force is unwavering. “What do you think you’re-”

She shoves her knee in his groin and he screams, releasing his hold on her for just a second. She’s only two steps closer to the open entryway when another pair of hands grabs her arms and tugs them fiercely behind her back. The guard who had left has returned, trying to bend her over while she struggles wildly against him. “Who are you?” He roars, hands slipping but just managing to catch her again every time she breaks free. She stamps at his feet and he dances away. “You trying to steal, you little thief? What did you take?”

“Avery, your shift is over, you bastard. Where is-” Two more guards pause their conversation as they round the corner to see her pushing with all her might against her captor. The man she hit is sitting on the ground now, leaned up against the wall like he doesn’t quite know what’s happening around him. The two new guards surge forward to aid in holding her. They push her down and she pushes back, the muscles in her shoulders screaming for relief. They get her on the ground, stomach down, arms behind her back, but this can’t be _it_ , this can’t be her fate for the rest of her life, to be so close to everything she’s ever wanted and then to be held back by men who will never understand, so she gives one final heave with all of her might.

All it does is cause one of the guards to knock her hat off. The men freeze in realization as her hair unfurls from its hiding place. She gives a cry of frustration as she hears more guards approaching the scene, shouting about going to get Robb, shouting to get off of the Lady Stark, shouting to close the gate.

She hears the definitive thud of the metal gate into the ground and when they release her, she does not move.

— —

When her brother storms into the room with their mother floating not far off his heels, she refuses to look away. “Chains?” She hisses, yanking on the offending metal links that keep her lashed to the chair she sits in. “You thought this _appropriate_?”

Robb is quick to put himself at her level, to sneer at her directly. Her mother hangs back, wringing her hands. “Appropriate punishment for inappropriate behavior,” he snarls. He’s raging, she’s never seen him rage. A vein in his neck thickens and his eyes spit fury. She snarls back, yanks at her chains again so the rattling will echo in his ears.

“This is our future - no, not just our future, the future of the _entire North_ , and you’re - what, willing to throw it away?” He grabs onto her shoulders, tight, begins to shake her. “Willing to butcher our chances of survival so that you can prove some self-righteous point to yourself?”

“Robb, stop,” Catelyn commands, and he listens, releasing his grip and stepping away. He wipes a hand over his face.

“Self-righteous?” Arya cries, the metal clinking in harmony with the desperate pitch of her voice. “You think it self-righteous of me to beg autonomy, to beg liberty over my own limbs?” There’s a sting of water behind her eyes but no, no, she won’t let him win, won’t become the weak little thing he thinks she is.

He softens at this, somehow sees the tears she won’t let fall, reaches out to her again. “I know you’re afraid. I know you’ve not wanted this before - never had a lover -”

“The North needs no lovers,” she spits, furious. “The North needs a King, and I see no such King anywhere in sight.”

He’s back to being angry again, but he’s trying his best not to let her get a rise out of him, she can tell. He turns to face the wall to let off steam, and Catelyn steps forward.

“You know we would not have agreed to this arrangement if we felt that there was any other option, but Arya, we have - no, listen to me - _we have put this off for far too long_.”

Arya pulls at the chains, refusing to look at her mother, but the tricky tears still leak their way out of her eyes. 

“You should have been betrothed to some Lord years ago. Eighteen is far too old for us to justify you remaining with us, especially when there’s something to be gained. We are _desperate_ , my love,” Catelyn pleads.

“Desperate enough to _sell me_?” She cannot stem her tears now, cannot hold back the torrent. “Desperate enough to barter the only daughter you have left like a piece of meat? Desperate enough even after the stories you’ve heard about him?”

Catelyn sighs. “Arya-“

“I _know_ you’ve heard them,” she bites out, trying to get Robb to turn around again. “You know what he’ll do to me. You know.”

Robb shakes his head. His whole body trembles. He turns around with clenched fists and contempt in his gaze. “Our father never would have tolerated your impudence like this.”

Arya swallows. “Our father never would have let you send me off to my death.”

Robb’s eyes widen before his jaw tightens. He opens his fist, and then clenches it again. He turns on his heel and storms out, letting the wood and metal of the door slam behind him as he goes. Catelyn hurries to kneel down beside her. “You will not be in danger there,” she promises, but the words ring empty. “Joffrey is King now. He is not the little boy you remember. He will do what is right by you as his wife.”

Catelyn runs her hand over her hair. Arya can’t help but lean into the touch, squeeze her eyes shut to quell the tears. “Please, mother,” she hiccups. “Please don’t. Please. Please don’t make me.”

She feels her mother give a final pass over her hair, then hears the click of boot against stone and a door. When she opens her eyes, she is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @laura-log


End file.
